His to Keep (Regency Scoundrels Book 2) (8 page)

Chapter Nine

Gemma screamed again, and started pacing.

She was so riled up. She wanted to strangle her brother. How dare he presume to know her well enough to guess her actions!

Damn him. Damn him straight to hell. 

“Of all the insufferable things to do…how dare he…how dare he presume—”

“Are you quite done?” he asked.

“Get out,” she raged, storming toward him, fists raised.

“I don’t know if I should leave you alone in this kind of temper.”

“What do you think I will do?”

“You might be inclined to jump out the window or some such nonsense. I don’t know what you might dream up.”

“I shan’t harm myself,” she said through clenched teeth. “Go and summon my cad of a brother. Tell him to fetch the vicar. If I am to marry you, I shall do it wearing this frock. I want it done and over with.”

“How romantic,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Our marriage isn’t one done for love. It’s being done to get my brother off my back. Once I marry you, I won’t have to deal with Mallory, I shall only have to deal with the likes of you.”

“And you think that dealing with me will be that much easier? Do you think I am more malleable than your brother?”

“I think you might be, and besides even if you aren’t, I won’t be under Mallory’s thumb anymore. I will almost be my own woman.”

“You will be your own woman. I won’t control your every action, Gemma.”

“Oh, but as most husbands do, you shall control me, isn’t that right?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer. Either you want to marry me or you don’t. I shan’t have you think that I forced you in any way.”

“I want to marry you,” she said the words so quickly that he almost believed them. He knew what she was doing. She thought he would be an easier man to deal with. She believed that she could marry him, and then use her higher social status to control him. Oh, was she ever going to be surprised when she found out who she had married.

Still, they could keep her in the dark for a little while longer. Right now, he wanted to get her before the minister, exchange their vows, seal their union with a kiss, and know that she was his wife for the rest of his life.

“I will go and fetch the vicar. Why don’t we have the ceremony in the South Drawing Room? It’s a pretty enough room.”

She regarded him silently, and slowly uncrossed her arms, so they were fell down to her sides. “Fine,” she said, all of the fight seemingly draining out of her.

“Good,” he said, cheerily. “I shall go and gather everyone together.”

He opened her bedchamber door, and softly shut it behind him. Before he knew it, Lady Gemma St. Martin would be his wife.

Chapter Ten

Elizabeth came to tell her that everything had been prepared.

Gemma sat by the window, looking out into the darkness. Her mind went back to Malcolm as it usually did whenever she felt the least bit anxious. His thoughts on marriage had been quite clear.

Marry for love.

Was she marrying for love? There did indeed exist a spark between her and Archie, but the question was, was there a promise of love burgeoning between them? She thought there might be. Either way, she had crossed the river of no return. Mallory would not stop until he had his way. Sighing heavily, she stood up, and turned to regard Elizabeth.

“You mustn’t look so severe, Gemma. You look as if you are going to your executioner!”

“My life is about to change for the better or the worse, I do not know.”

“I think it is about to change for the better, Gemma,” Elizabeth said softly. 

Squaring her shoulders, she tossed her hair back. She had let it hang loose down around her shoulders. Some might think she was being brazen, but she didn’t care. Why should she care about what others thought anymore? Her life was in shambles, and in truth, she didn’t want to disturb her maid. Already, tongues below stairs would be wagging, she didn’t want to feed the fire. With nervousness dancing through her, she marched down to the South Drawing Room. Walking to Archie’s side, she looked at the vicar who looked a little sleepy. They had probably woken him to perform the ceremony.

The words the vicar spoke were lost on her. She played her part, and before she knew it, blessedly, the whole thing was over. She put her signature where she had to, and then, as if in a daze, she headed back to her bedchamber. No one even tried to detain her. 

She rang for her maid after realizing that she couldn’t manage the stay she wore on her own. Silently, her maid tended to her. If she knew what Gemma had done, she didn’t say anything about it. That was what she liked about Carson, she seemed to sense Gemma’s moods, and knew when it was safe to strike up some civil whiskers, and knew when it was safer to keep her bone box shut.

“Is…is that all, Lady Northam?”

“What did you just say?” she whispered, something resembling dread burning through her gut.

“I...” Carson’s face went a vermillion red. “I…I asked you if that was all.”

“No, the very last part, the bit where you addressed me by title.”

“I…uh, I said Lady Northam.”

“Why would you call me that? I’m Lady Gemma. I shan’t be calling myself Mrs. Campbell, that’s for certain.”

“You don’t have to style yourself Mrs. Campbell, my lady. I thought you knew…”

“What did you think I knew? Archie Campbell is just plain old Archie Campbell.” Egad. She’d married a man she hardly knew. She thought him to be just one of the hoi polloi. To think, to think that he was nobly born, oh, how she had make a cake of herself! Oh, how he must be laughing at her. Oh, he must think she was dicked in the nob! She felt a fit of the blue-devils coming on.

Maybe, maybe Carson was wrong.

“Are you quite certain that he is a…Peer of the Realm?” she asked, gulping back her trepidation.

“His valet came with him.”

“Valet?” Now she really felt weak.

“Aye. Said he was here to attend to the Marquis, then, he corrected himself and said Marquess, seeing as he’s in England.”

“And he’s the Marquess of Northam.”

“Aye,” Carson said softly. “His father is a duke.”

At this announcement, Gemma almost fell off her chair. “So…we…we…”

“Are on even level so to speak?” Carson asked. She looked in the mirror. Carson stood behind her, and was that the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips?

“Why would he do that to me?”

“Who?” Carson asked.

“Lord Northam.”

“I wasn’t aware he had done anything to you, my lady.”

“He didn’t tell me who he was.”

“You knew his name,” Carson pointed out.

“Aye, but I should have known more than that, and I made…I presumed…I made assumptions, didn’t I?”

Carson remained silent, quietly answering Gemma. Gemma’s world was tilting. She felt faint. She would need to climb into her bed soon, because she didn’t think her legs would hold her long, and as she sat at her dressing table she felt numb.

She had married a Peer of the Realm. He wasn’t a common piece of rough. He was…he was a lord. Her initial suspicions of him had been correct. She’d known he’d spoken with too refined of an accent. He wasn’t rough and ready, he only wanted people to believe that of him. He had been in as many of the glittering ballrooms of the land as she had…maybe…maybe more. Their financial situation had only improved when Mallory had married before that they hadn’t been able to afford giving her much of a Season…let alone a proper Come Out.

“Shall I help you into bed?”

“No. I think I can handle that myself.”

“I’ll just warm up the sheets then, and be on my way,” Carson said. Gemma bit her lip, and sat unmoving. Would she ever be able to move from her place? She felt wretched, and simmering down beneath it all was a little bit of anger. Anger and resentment that they had all pulled the wool down over her eyes. She didn’t like being deceived. No….no, she didn’t, not one bit.

After Carson had done her bit, and left the room, she remained where she was. This wasn’t how she’d always expected to spend her wedding night. Sighing heavily, she finally found the strength to stand up. Her legs were wobbly beneath her, and she slowly made her way over to her bed. Climbing up on it, she tucked the covers down around herself. The sheets were nice and cozy warm. She sank back against her many pillows, and finally relaxed. One candle still illuminated her bedchamber in a gentle hue. She looked at the plain rose gold wedding ring she wore. Archie had been well equipped. He’d come with the special license, her wedding ring, his valet and who knows what else.

She had just shut her eyes when the sound of someone entering her room startled her awake. She looked over to see her husband. His boldness knew no bounds, apparently.

“Get out,” she said coldly. “This is my bedchamber. Not yours.”

“It isn’t?” he asked innocently.

“Don’t make me scream.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing that,” he said softly, quietly walking over to the large bed. He felt the mattresses. “Aye…this should do. This should do me quite nicely.”

“Do you quite nicely? I think not, sir. As I said, this is my bedroom. Not yours. You go, you leave this instant.”

“I do not have to leave. I am right where I am supposed to be.”

“Why are you being so tiring?”

“I’m not, am I?” he asked. The soft glow of the one candle still left him pretty much draped in darkness. She lifted the candle, so she could gain a better look at him. He was already dressed for bed. Popinjay. Varlet. Knave. How…how could he!

“You lied to me.”

“I did?” again with that simpering sweet innocence. She groaned.

“You did,” she said forcefully. “You withheld pertinent information about yourself.”

“I wasn’t aware that I had.”

“You let me marry you thinking that you are part of the hoi polloi.”

“I…hang on, are you offended because you married a man with a title?”

“I am offended because that man didn’t tell me that he had been born into a prestigious family. You didn’t tell me that you were the son of a duke.”

“I am,” he said softly.

“You are,” she said, more like it was an accusation than a confirmation.

“And this displeases you?”

“It does. I thought I was marrying a man who would…”

“Cause a scandal for you? You thought that Mallory would marry you off to a man without means?”

“I don’t know what I bloody well thought. I thought I was marrying down, not up from Duxford.”

“You would have married up, sweetheart, even if you had married a man from the hoi polloi who had raised himself up by going into the Royal Navy. Any man of good moral fiber is a step up from Duxford.”

“Again with the insults upon his character.”

“Aye, and I will keep insulting him until the day I die.”

She fell into silence and looked away from him, carefully placing the candle back on her night table. “You should go. We can bicker in the morning.”

“I am not going anywhere.”

“Well, you’re not coming up and sleeping in this bed, sir. I barely know you. You might be my husband, but that doesn’t mean you, you can share my bed.”

“We should consummate the marriage.”

“No, we should not. There only has to be the ability to consummate and I shan’t have you sharing my bed when I barely know who you are, Lord Northam.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be?”

“Aye,” she said.

“You are a stubborn little chit. I don’t think you know just how alike you and Mallory are. The two of you are like two peas in a pod.”

“Whatever you say,” she said softly. She huddled down further into the bed, trying desperately to pretend that their rather close proximity wasn’t driving her mad. She wondered what it would feel like to be wrapped in his embrace. To have him claim her as his wife, to have him love her that way. She wanted to hurt him by keeping what he wanted away from her. Did he truly desire her?

“Why did you marry me?” she asked bluntly.

“I owed your brother a debt.”

“How noble of you.”

He bowed to her. “I am happy to please you.”

“I don’t think that really pleases me. It might please Mallory but I am not so easily placated. Do you think a woman likes to hear that the only reason a man married her was to repay a debt?”

“You don’t?” he asked, sounding a little wounded. “I thought it would play to your romantic nature.”

“Maybe I don’t have a romantic nature,” she shot back.

“Maybe you don’t,” he said sadly, sinking into a large chair. “What do you want me to do?”

The question hung in the air. She wanted him to join her. She wanted him to ravish her and love her madly and deeply. His love was all that she had wanted since she first set eyes on him. But love had burned her before. She couldn’t put herself at risk, no matter how much she wanted Archie to pay for the part he played in making her his wife.

“I want you to go,” she said softly, her words sounding foreign to her as if another woman spoke them.

“You do?” he looked up in surprise. He had read her right. She was attracted to him. Her desires didn’t matter. Her heart mattered, and she would protect it at any cost.

“I do.”

“Not surprising,” he said affably. “After all, we do have to set out early to Brighton. We can have our wedding night once we reach my townhouse there.”

“Your townhouse?” she asked weakly.

“Did you think you married a pauper?”

“I did, actually.”

The grin he gave her was genuine and tugged on her heartstrings. “All right then, I shall shatter your hopes. You married a nobleman with fairly deep coffers.”

“You…we won’t be staying at my brother’s mansion in town?”

“We won’t.”

“And...” she swallowed thickly. “Will we be all alone in your townhouse?”

“We will.”

“And…when you married me…did you want a pretend wife…or a real one?”

“Are you…are you jesting?”

“Why would I be?” she asked, a bit wounded.

“What sort of man marries a woman that he doesn’t want to…to…” Now his cheeks were flaming red.

“That he doesn’t want to bed?” she provided for him.

“Aye,” he said weakly, looking relieved that she had sorted that out for him. He looked a little strained. Was he having a hard time controlling his own desires? Jolly good.

“You would be surprised, Lord Northam.”

“I would be?” he asked.

“You would be.”

“At any rate, Lady Northam, I do not want a wife in name only. I want a wife to share my bed, I want a wife to love. I want to own every part of her…her heart, her soul…” And at this part, he gave her a look that nearly scorched her. “Her body.”

“You shall have a long time to wait,” she whispered. “You may take your leave now.”

“I may?” he asked, laughing in that deep husky way of his. “I don’t think so. I have slept in worse conditions. I will stay here, if you do not mind, Lady Northam.”

“I do mind,” she said, bristling indignantly. She threw back her covers, and got out of the bed, her feet slapping against the cold floor. She hissed in a sharp breath, and shivered a bit. Golly. The room was cold. Nonplussed, she strode toward him, trying to stay her wayward nerves. He sat in a rather severe looking Jacobean chair. “Take your big hulking body, and leave.”

“Did you just call me a hulk?”

“Yes,” she snapped.

“I think,” he said, acting as if she had wounded his pride. “I think you meant that as an insult.”

“Take it as you like it,” she said angrily, putting her hands over her chest when she realized that the flimsy material of her nightgown was leaving little to the imagination, and her husband seemed quite happy with it.